* * *
His henchman waited at the bottom of the stairs. The common room was crowded now, a multitude of masked men in various stages of undress, dancing and kissing and cornering each other in the smoky shadows.
“That took longer than I thought,” he remarked. He glanced at the bloodstains on my collar. “He must like you. He only cuts his favorites.”
“You should attend to him,” I retorted, and I strode past him, out of the common room. Retrieving my sword and cloak from the doorman, who gave me another knowing leer, I evaded his grab for my codpiece and plunged into the night.
Light snow was falling. I drew in drafts of the cold air, as if I could rinse the filth of the encounter with the earl from my person. As I trod back over the frozen river, whose surface felt decidedly less solid to me, I realized I was being followed and put my hand on my sword. However, as before on the bridge, Courtenay’s manservant seemed content to remain a distance behind, making more noise on the ice-hardened snow than a professional should. As soon as I reached the shore, I whirled about with my sword in hand.
Swirling snow filled the empty, icy expanse I had just traversed.
I tossed the stolen mantle in King’s Street and hastened, shivering, to the palace. Climbing the icy staircase to my room, I went still, a knot clogging my throat.
Then I forced myself to unlock the door.
Everything appeared the same as I had left it. Then, as I stepped inside and lit the tallow, I realized Sybilla had been here; she had returned to tidy my scattered belongings, setting the coffer and stool upright and folding Peregrine’s cloak carefully on my cot.
My knees gave way underneath me. Sinking to the floor, I dragged the cloak from the bed, and, burying my face in folds that still smelled faintly of him, I wept.
Chapter Thirteen
I awoke with a profound sense of loss and, more prosaically, a rumble in my stomach. Belatedly, I recalled that I’d not eaten so much as a crumb of bread since that greasy meal in the tavern off the bridge.
I padded in my hose to the basin, cracked the layer of thin ice, and splashed water on my face. Catching my reflection in my hand mirror, I went still. My newly trimmed beard could not disguise my haggard appearance. There were dark smudges under my red-rimmed eyes; my skin was the hue of old parchment. I looked as if I’d aged years.
I turned to my bed. I had fallen asleep, clutching Peregrine’s cloak. Now I had to fold it and put it aside, resisting my sorrow as I sniffed it and realized it was already losing his smell. I tucked it into the coffer, biting the inside of my mouth to stop my tears as I fished around for fresh hose and shirt. I’d brought few clothes in my stubborn refusal to admit I might be at court longer than I wanted to. Now I’d have to launder my soiled linens and-
Kate.
I rocked back on my heels. So much had happened in so short a time, I’d not spared her a thought. What she was doing at this moment? Had she already been to the stables to see to the horses? Or gone to tend her winter herb garden, which she protected as tenderly as she would its eventual spring shoots? If I shut my eyes, I could see her wrapped in her mantle, reaching a gloved hand down toward the frosted earth …
She must be told. She loved Peregrine. Somehow, I had to get word to her.
Drawing out my writing utensils, I composed a letter with the simple but painstaking cipher Cecil had devised for me. Employing the manual on basic animal husbandry that I’d brought in my bag, the cipher consisted of the first and third letters of each line of the manual’s odd-numbered pages. My note could only be read by someone with a matching book; in this case, Cecil himself. Once I was finished, I folded the paper. I had no seal.
A knock came at the door. I leapt for my sword, unsheathing it. Then I heard Rochester say, “Master Beecham? Are you awake?”
I set my sword aside. He stood outside, a pile of folded clothing in his arms. He gave me a forlorn smile. “Mistress Darrier mentioned you might have need of fresh clothes after…” He swallowed. “I trust these will fit. Her Majesty wishes you to join her in the chapel after you break your fast.” He shook his head. “Such a terrible affair. She was most upset when I told her. She wants the matter looked into thoroughly. That a mere boy could have-”
“Her Majesty is too kind,” I interrupted gently, “but there is no need for an inquest. Peregrine and I took our midday meal on the bridge yesterday. He must have eaten something tainted. He complained of stomach pains on the ride back.”
“Ah.” Though Rochester did his best to conceal it, I could see his relief. He had enough to contend with at court without a possible murder to investigate. “That is indeed unfortunate. It’s never safe to eat at the stalls. The meat: You never know where it came from. Cats, dogs, rats-in times of need, people will cook anything. Poor lad.”
I nodded. I needed him to go. I wasn’t sure I could maintain my composure if he kept talking. “Shall I get dressed?” I suggested.
He nodded hastily. “I’ll await you in the privy gallery.”
As soon as he left, I pressed my knuckles to my temples, staving off a wave of utter despair. Unraveling the bundle of clothing, I found a plain but well-cut wool doublet, breeches, hose, and underlinens.
I washed thoroughly before I dressed and ran a comb through my tangled hair. I needed to see a barber, too. After rubbing the crust of snow and dirt from my boots, I slipped my letter to Kate into my doublet and went to the gallery. Rochester brought me to a side chamber to partake of bread, cheese, beer, and dried fruit. I was grateful he didn’t mention Peregrine again, filling the awkward silence between us instead with chat of the weather and the rarity of the Thames freezing over, until the hour came to join the queen.
It was a long trajectory, through an upper loggia overlooking the barren gardens and several galleries where courtiers congregated to pass the time. As we walked, I asked Rochester about the Spaniard I’d encountered the previous day.
His mouth pursed. “That would be the Duke of Feria. He’s a trusted noble and confidant of-” He stopped himself. “A hard man,” he muttered, “as all these Spaniards are apt to be. I understand he wasn’t helpful to you.”
“He was taken aback.” I realized Rochester had almost admitted aloud that Feria was a confidant of Prince Philip. “I’m not sure how I’d have reacted in his place.”
“A sight better than he did, I’m sure,” said Rochester. “Mistress Dormer was the one who fetched me from the hall, scared out of her wits, while he stood there as if…” He sighed. “I suppose there’s no use stirring up what we can do nothing about.”
“You’re a good man,” I said.
“Somebody has to be” was his reply. “I fear there are too few of us these days.”
I debated for a moment. I had a sudden suspicion about Rochester that I needed to confirm. It was a calculated risk but worth the attempt. He could always refuse.
“I have a missive I must send.” I removed the letter from my doublet. “A friend of mine should be told of my squire’s passing. Could I impose on you to…?”
He came to a halt. “I suppose you’ll want it sealed and sent by courier?”
“If possible. Can you see it delivered to Theobalds House in Hertfordshire?” I did not elaborate; as color crept into his fleshy cheeks, I knew without a word spoken that he had recognized the name of Cecil’s manor. I almost smiled, despite the circumstances.
Rochester looked at me. Still without speaking, he took the missive and tucked it into the large pouch at his belt. “Just this once,” he said, turning to resume our walk. “I ask that you keep it between us. I’m not authorized to use our couriers without leave.”
“I’m very grateful,” I said softly.
In the spacious chamber where I’d selected plum velvet for Mary, the queen and her women sat before the
